No blarney, the Force was with me. Or at least with Watson, a black Lab mix and crack dolphin spotter who, upon detecting dorsal fins, relentlessly barked while racing throughout our small fishing boat jouncing in the Atlantic off Ireland’s rugged coast. Almost magically, pods of playful cetaceans suddenly swam alongside and under the vessel, as our ancient destination — isolated Skellig Michael island —  vaulted up like a jagged, supernatural pyramid on the sea’s distant horizon.

The 1,400-year-old monastic settlement atop Skellig Michael island is considered a sacred Christian site. It’s also where Luke Skywalker lived in two Star Wars’ movies. (Photo by Norma Meyer)

A magnificent otherworld awaited. Fantastically flanked by oodles of adorable, clownish puffins lining my path, I’d soon climb Skellig Michael’s perilous 618-step “stairway to heaven” to explore 1,400-year-old stone beehive huts of long-departed hermit monks. Those austere, solitude-obsessed Celtic Christians must’ve spun in their nearby graves when Luke Skywalker squatted in their divine refuge and a sizable Star Wars’ film crew clambered up the sacred UNESCO site. Skellig Michael became planet Ahch-To in “Episode VII: The Force Awakens” and “Episode VIII: The Last Jedi.”

Skellig Michael, named for the archangel saint, soars up in the remote Atlantic Ocean off Ireland’s coast. (Photo by Norma Meyer)

Just getting to this wind-flogged, storm-lashed outpost is extremely difficult. Each year, for only a seasonal few months, a limited number of 12-seat boats can sail the eight miles to Skellig Michael, but excursions are often canceled because of nasty gusts and choppy swells that make landings too dangerous. Call it luck of the Irish: On an unusually clear May day, after passengers received explicit instructions about how to puke overboard (thankfully not needed), skipper John O’ Shea shuttled us across on a one-hour journey, his sharp-eyed Watson and border collie Luna hilariously going dolphin bonkers almost the whole way.

Jagged rock pinnacles and seaside cliffs loom for guests walking down Skellig Michael’s 618 steps. It’s not for those with vertigo. (Photo by Norma Meyer)

When I laid foot on Skellig Michael, a safety officer scarily warned visitors that tourists have plunged to their deaths and been injured on the steep, cliffside, monk-hewn rough steps that have no handrailing; she suggested if you freak out, turn back and slide down on your rear. I very, very carefully trudged 600 feet up to the goosebump-eliciting monastery, its six conical dwellings, church, two oratories, cemetery and rainwater cisterns all spectacularly trapped in the medieval past. About 12 monks and an abbot lived in the religious sanctuary at any given period over six centuries; atop this precipice they felt closer to God. However, despite their chanting psalms, praying and singing hymns, demons lurked. Axe-wielding Vikings occasionally pillaged the settlement, once kidnapping an abbot for ransom; he died of starvation.

The lakes of Killarney are seen from Ladies View on the scenic Ring of Kerry route. Queen Victoria’s ladies-in-waiting visited the spot in 1861. (Photo by Norma Meyer)

I got here thanks to being on an exceptional weeklong trip, “Hiking & Island Hopping: Cork & Kerry,” with adventure operator Wilderness Ireland (wildernessireland.com). Five years ago, I did a colorful trekking tour with sister company Wilderness Scotland, and fancied a similar one frolicking among Ireland’s four-leaf clovers. We hiked through staggeringly gorgeous Emerald Isle landscapes several hours a day but there was much more — a visit with a beloved blind goat farmer, a haunted abbey, toe-tapping pubs, a “Sleeping Giant,” and an evacuated island of storytellers, to name a few highlights.

The Blasket island of Inishtooskert has been dubbed the “Sleeping Giant.” It’s also been called, “The Dead Man.” (Photo by Norma Meyer)

Let me give a major shout-out to our great-humored, knowledgable Irish guide (and Elvis fan), 52-year-old Declan Faulkner. He drove us eight Americans a total of 550 miles in a mini-van on the twisting, iconic Wild Atlantic Way and enthusiastically led us into the glistening green, wildflower-sprouting, sheep-replete, wave-crashing coastal yonder. The camaraderie among fellow travelers, all initially strangers to me, was “craic” (good fun) even before we lifted pints of Guinness in Crayola-bright, Irish-speaking villages.

Hotels on a Wilderness Ireland trip include one in the vibrant, historical town of Kenmare. (Photo by Norma Meyer)

History ran rampant. On day one, Declan made an impromptu stop at a cemetery in Skibbereen where 9,000 local victims of the mid-1800s Irish potato famine are buried in a mass grave. All week, we’d see countless dry-stone “famine walls” that were work projects created to give the unemployed income during the hunger catastrophe that killed one million souls.

The sun sets over Skibbereen, one of the worst affected areas in Ireland during the mid-1800s potato famine. (Photo by Norma Meyer)

Another morning, we walked around the charming, harbor hamlet of Baltimore, a still-standing 13th-century castle witness to the horrific “Sack of Baltimore.” A sign memorialized the night In June 1631 when 230 armed North African Barbary pirates attacked the sleeping town, torching homes and snatching terrified residents from their beds. An estimated 154 men, women and children were captured, chained, and loaded onto ships to become Algerian slaves.

The quaint Irish town of Baltimore was once raided by pirates who took residents captive and shipped them out to become Algerian slaves. (Photo by Norma Meyer)

From Baltimore, our smooth-cruising ferry —  briefly surrounded by giant open-mouthed basking sharks —  delivered us to tiny Cape Clear, Ireland’s most southerly inhabited island (pop.110). Inside a cement shed, cheery 75-year-old Ed Harper held a blue pail and milked black-and-white goat Morag, who wanted to eat my iPhone. Ed, a former sociology teacher in England, has been blind since early childhood. He founded his Cleire Goat Farm 45 years ago and currently has 26 cud-chewers roaming 27 verdant acres. His favorite, big-bodied Captain Nibbles, appears to be the boss.

Ed Harper, seen milking one of his herd, has been a goat farmer on Cape Clear island for 45 years. He’s been blind since early childhood. (Photo by Norma Meyer)

“Goats want everything that people want: food, sex and status,” Ed told me with a hearty laugh and a tug on his snowy beard.

The farm sells six flavors of goat ice cream, including lavender (“I think it tastes like soap,” Ed chuckled), along with actual goat soap, burgers and sausages. I met personable Nibbles and curious herd members perched atop a rocky outcrop in the grassy fields; a young goat gnawed the red laces of my hiking boots.

A Napoleonic War-era signal tower and an abandoned lighthouse greet hikers on Ireland’s Cape Clear island. (Photo by Norma Meyer)

Done milking, Ed sat outside on a bench and rambunctiously sang folk tunes (“there was Brown, upside down, mopping up the whisky on the floor…”). He was pure joy. And then off we hiked into Cape Clear’s fairytale hinterlands, pausing to devour our backpack-carried sandwiches atop a breathtaking, sheer bluff teetering over the expansive Atlantic. Behind us rose a crumbling Napoleonic War-era signal tower along with a lighthouse abandoned in 1854 after it was obscured in the fog, causing a ship disaster that killed 92 passengers.

Muckross Abbey, founded in 1448 and inside Killarney National Park, is said to be haunted. (Photo by Norma Meyer)

On other jaunts, we’d trek on tranquil, aptly-named Sheep’s Head peninsula, stroll the enormous, palatial Killarney National Park estate of Muckross House that Queen Victoria stayed in, and amble to the eerie, 15th-century Muckross Abbey, where a man’s ghost has supposedly been seen chewing a corpse’s flesh in the tangled graveyard. Real-life “Dracula” author Bram Stoker used to hang around the grounds too.

Like a Disney cartoon, hundreds of puffins are incredibly close and unafraid of visitors on Skellig Michael island. (Photo by Norma Meyer)

This entire trip was also a bird bonanza. Some 8,000 puffins each spring inundate Skellig Michael to breed and nest, and scads of them stared at us unfazed with silly orange-beaked faces. In 2015, when  “The Last Jedi” filmed on the island, there were so many puffins in the background that CGI artists had to turn them into intergalactic “porgs.” The monks would navigate the treacherous staircase every day to fish, but they also ate the eggs and meat of seabirds, including those cute puffins. Before we arrived at Skelling Michael, our boat floated around smaller, human-uninhabitable Little Skellig island, a colony of 70,000 gannets crowding every ledge.

Skellig Michael’s church window frames Little Skellig island, inaccessible to humans but a seabird preserve for 70,000 breeding gannets. (Photo by Norma Meyer)

Another hike brought us to a second “Last Jedi” location, the stunning Dunmore Head promontory on the Dingle Peninsula. This is where Luke Skywalker kept his X-Wing fighter, milked a gigantic  sea cow and drank its green milk. Across from Dunmore Head, you can see the deserted, mythical Blasket Islands; one is dubbed the “Sleeping Giant” and appears to be an immense body in repose. We had planned to trek about Great Blasket island, but bad weather scrapped our boat ride.

The stunning promontory of Dunmore Head — another filming location for “The Last Jedi” — looks across at once-populated Great Blasket island. (Photo by Norma Meyer)

Instead, we visited the intriguing Blasket Centre museum, which recounts how Great Blasket had to be permanently evacuated in 1953 because violent seas often thwarted medical care and other services for the 22 remaining and mostly aging residents. At one time, up to 175 people lived in the enclave that had no store, no doctor, no priest, no running water or electricity and a Morse code radio so unreliable that islanders set bonfires to alert the mainland they were in distress. Displayed artifacts, such as girls’ smocks, pipes, a domino set, and letters told of a tight, hardscrabble community that loved to fiddle and dance the four-hand reel. Great Blasket was also home to several Irish authors, including superb storyteller Peig Sayers who wrote her stirring memoirs about surviving on the island for 40 years.

A portrait of premier Irish storyteller Peig Sayers hangs in the Blasket Centre museum. Sayers wrote about her hard life on Great Blasket island. (Photo by Norma Meyer)

From the Centre, I hiked along the tip of Dingle Peninsula until I ran into a dilapidated stone schoolhouse affixed with a plaque stating it was the 19th-century Kirrary National School. Hollywood again. The faux school was part of a set built for the 1970 Oscar-winning romantic epic, “Ryan’s Daughter.”

A schoolhouse, solely built for the 1970 epic movie, “Ryan’s Daughter,” still stands on Dingle Peninsula. (Photo by Norma Meyer)

For sure, I hit a pot of gold on this adventure in counties Cork and Kerry. “It’s the people, the friendliness, the scenery, the ruggedness of the coastline and the mountains — and the peacefulness of it all,” Declan said. (That peace was temporarily interrupted when Declan played Elvis’ “Suspicious Minds” in the van and we all loudly crooned along.)  And even though I didn’t glimpse sought-after leprechauns, I did see a yellow road sign designating their “crossing” at the panoramic Ladies View lookout.

Ireland’s bearded sprites apparently like to go back and forth to a lookout at Ladies View. (Photo by Norma Meyer)

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We spent our final two nights in the lively town of Dingle, known for quirky and music-permeating pubs. Our group toasted in legendary Dick Mack’s, an 1899-founded pub-haberdashery where a craftsman now fashions leather belts at the booze-serving bar counter. (The motto is “Step Up and Get Waisted.”) Along Main Street, inside vintage pub-hardware shop Foxy John’s, patrons can sip a smooth whisky and buy DIY items, such as tools, vehicle anti-freeze and rat bait. (I guess their slogan could be “Step Up and Get Hammered.”)

Our trip ended way too soon when Declan dropped us off at the Limerick train station. On my locomotive-powered voyage back to Dublin, I sat next to Kevin Clancy, an elderly gent from Limerick who enjoyed how awed I was by his country. “You know what’s so special about Ireland?” he asked in his thick brogue. “You don’t have to go anywhere to see the beautiful scenery. In fact, you can always reach out and touch it.”

I knowingly smiled  — and touched the shamrock in my pocket.

Meredith Blake | Los Angeles Times (TNS)

NEW YORK — When Declan Lawn and Adam Patterson were first approached about making a cop show set in Belfast, they were — to put it mildly — apprehensive.

Both writers grew up in Northern Ireland, live in Belfast and are deeply familiar with the bloody history of the region. Yet they worried that a series about the city’s police force, which was once overwhelmingly Protestant and viewed with suspicion by the Catholic community, would be too inherently polarizing.

Even today, more than 25 years after the Good Friday Agreement, which brought peace to the country after decades of conflict, “There are some areas where the police can’t go,” Patterson said during a recent visit to New York. “The biggest fear was that the politics of it all would just swallow up anything that we would try to say and become the story. That’s often the case in Northern Ireland.”

“It’s a big privilege to tell a story about your own place, your own time, in your own voice,” added Lawn. “But it’s also a massive — I would say, at times oppressive — responsibility.”

But the duo, former broadcast journalists who worked together on the BBC current affairs series “Panorama,” reconsidered after meeting with real Belfast police officers. “These are just ordinary people, and they’re doing a crazy job for not very much money,” Patterson said. “We thought we could tell a brilliant story about family, using the police as a Trojan horse.”

This idea evolved into “Blue Lights,” a procedural following a trio of fresh recruits to the Police Service of Northern Ireland, or PSNI: Grace (Siân Brooke), a 40-something pivoting from a career as a social worker; Annie (Katherine Devlin), a young rookie whose Catholic background puts her safety at risk; and Tommy (Nathan Braniff), who is insecure but determined to prove himself. They are guided by a team of seasoned vets, including the charming Gerry (Richard Dormer, of “Game of Thrones” fame).

Season 1 revolved around their pursuit of James McIntyre (John Lynch), a former Irish Republican Army man who is now the head of a crime family based in a Catholic, nationalist neighborhood in West Belfast. The series looked at the ties between the paramilitary groups that terrorized Northern Ireland during the Troubles and the present-day drug trade.

In Season 2, which began streaming on BritBox last week, the focus shifts across town to a loyalist pub in Protestant East Belfast that is a hub for criminal activity that transcends the political divide. The ambitious six-episode season also explores the city’s heroin epidemic, the impact of government funding cuts and the painful legacy of sectarian violence.

If this makes “Blue Lights” sound like Belfast’s answer to “The Wire,” well, that’s exactly what Patterson and Lawn had in mind when they created the show. David Simon’s acclaimed Baltimore-set drama was a huge inspiration, particularly in its multifaceted depiction of “a post-industrial city that people hadn’t paid much attention to before,” Patterson said.

Like Simon, who got his start as a newspaper reporter, Lawn and Patterson spent years traveling around the world as TV journalists. The experiences “teach you a lot about the human condition, and how people will react to great pressure and difficulty,” Patterson said.

“You would expect that the more bad stuff you see, the more pessimistic view you would have of human nature,” Lawn said. “But our takeaway from all those years was [that] most people are good and decent. The people who aren’t have disproportionate power.”

They met in 2009, while on assignment in Wales, and wound up staying out until 4 a.m. doing karaoke. (Lawn performed “Stan” by Eminem in a packed, working-class bar.) They formed an instant bond that is evident in person 15 years later: The writers share a jocular, brotherly rapport and are quick to call each other out for being boring.

They turned to screenwriting as a way to channel their frustration with the constraints of TV journalism. When they were making documentaries, they would meet remarkable people and interview them for hours — only to leave incredible stories on the cutting room floor.

Their first commission was “The Salisbury Poisonings,” a fact-based BBC miniseries about a botched attempt to assassinate Sergei Skripal, a former Russian military intelligence officer, in 2018.

They tend to take a journalistic approach to crafting drama, conducting numerous interviews and using this primary material to create relatable characters. For “Blue Lights,” they’ve talked to dozens of police officers, who shared stories about checking under their cars for bombs and living in fear of fringe republicans.

The history of policing in Belfast is impossible to disentangle from the long conflict between Catholics and Protestants. The Royal Ulster Constabulary, the police force in Northern Ireland until 2001, had almost no Catholics in its ranks and was accused of colluding with unionist paramilitary organizations. It was “horribly divisive,” Patterson said.

The organization was replaced by the PSNI, and there has been a concerted effort to recruit more police officers from Catholic backgrounds. Today, according to the PSNI, about 33% of police officers in the country are Catholic, while 66% are Protestant. (Catholics, once a minority, now narrowly outnumber Protestants in the country as a whole.) The very existence of “Blue Lights” is a sign of the progress that’s been made. “Ten years ago, you couldn’t have made this show,” Lawn said.

Yet threats remain. Police officers in Northern Ireland regularly carry guns, unlike anywhere else in the United Kingdom.

A few weeks before the premiere of Season 1, a police detective named John Caldwell was shot in an attack believed to have been orchestrated by the New IRA, a dissident republican group, but he survived.

“Sometimes the things that happen in real life, we steer away from because they’re almost too crazy to put on a show,” said Lawn, citing a recent data breach in which the PSNI mistakenly released names and other information about thousands of staffers online, where it was obtained by dissident republicans.

“If we put that in a TV show, people would be like, ‘Come on!’” Patterson said.

In Season 2, they delve into the city’s unionist enclaves, leaning on knowledge they gleaned making documentaries about loyalist marching bands. For another storyline involving a character named Happy (Paddy Jenkins), whose family was killed decades ago in a chip shop bombing, they visited the Wave Trauma Center, which provides support to people affected by the Troubles.

But the new episodes also show how crime has, ironically, brought both sides of the conflict together.

“The paramilitary framework is essentially now a sugarcoating for drug gangs. These people do go to church, right? They pretend that they’re fighting for the freedom of Ireland, or the loyalty to the British crown, but they’re gangsters,” Patterson said.

The series has been renewed for a third and fourth season by the BBC (where it airs in the U.K.). In future episodes, they plan to shift to leafy, affluent South Belfast — “where the real criminals are,” Lawn joked.

“We love the city but realize it is a flawed diamond,” Patterson said.

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Both in their 40s and part of a generation that came of age at the tail end of the Troubles, Lawn and Patterson bring different perspectives to “Blue Lights.” Patterson comes from a Protestant background, and his father worked in Northern Ireland’s prison system — even doing a stint at the notorious Maze prison, which housed many IRA members. As a kid, he was told to never discuss what his dad did for a living or answer the door to a stranger. They had bullet-resistant glass on the windows.

“It was my normal, but on reflection, it wasn’t normal,” said Patterson, who asked his father for permission to talk about his profession before the release of Season 1. (Lawn said he didn’t even know what Patterson’s father’s did for a living until they started writing “Blue Lights” together.)

Lawn, meanwhile, grew up in a Catholic, nationalist family in Derry (the setting of the raucous Troubles-themed sitcom “Derry Girls”). His parents worked in a bank that was regularly a target of robberies. They lived across the river from the city center and would often hear bombs going off.

“I became super anxious about them coming home,” he said. “Even if they were five minutes late, I’d be like, ‘Oh, they’re dead,’ which was actually quite a rational expectation. People were being blown up all the time.”

Lawn and Patterson said they had been friends and creative partners for a decade before they really talked about their experiences growing up. Patterson explained the thinking this way: “Somebody else down the road always had something more horrific happen to them. So what right do you have to whine about the things happened to you?”

Yet in writing “Blue Lights,” authenticity is key because “Northern Ireland is a tough audience,” Lawn said. “If you get even the slightest piece of vernacular or accent or anything wrong, they will tell you. So far, we haven’t had any major complaints.”

The series films on location in republican and loyalist neighborhoods where overt displays of support for one side or the other — usually flags and murals — are commonplace.

“The only way you’re going to be able to film there in those places is with the consent of the community. So far, people have been extremely welcoming,” Lawn said. “It might be gritty and difficult, but it’s fair. It doesn’t demonize anyone.”

This realism extends to use of regional slang like “touts” (informants), “peelers” (cops) and “ride” (have sex) and the prevalence of thick Northern Irish accents, which turn long A sounds into short E’s. (Lawn heartily recommends watching with subtitles.) But the creators of “Blue Lights” believe it resonates beyond the community where it’s set, because themes like family and belonging are universal. It also approaches heavy subject matter with dark humor.

And as unflinching as it is, “Blue Lights” is also an optimistic show, Lawn said. “There’s lots of darkness, lots of grimness. But ultimately, I think it’s about a kind of quiet heroism.”

©2024 Los Angeles Times. Visit latimes.com. Distributed by Tribune Content Agency, LLC.

Ksenia Prints (Associated Press)

If you thought that going sober meant signing up for a lifetime of tepid ginger ale, think again. In the past few years, non-alcoholic drink options have become more popular than ever. So whether you’ve been dry for a decade or have recently become sober curious, read on for an inside look at why so many Americans are embracing mocktails this summer.

Americans are breaking up with booze

Ever thought about reducing your alcohol consumption? If so, you’ve likely noticed that summer social events and alcohol seem to go together like gin and tonic: a frustrating combination for those looking for alternatives.

It might be a glass of wine with lunch, a couple of beers on the dock or an evening enjoying margaritas on the patio – whatever the occasion, alcohol starts to feel inescapable. Even when what you really want is a non-alcoholic Aperol spritz, it can feel awkward to repeatedly say “no thanks!” in the face of constant pressure to imbibe.

Is this the summer of sobriety?

The good news is that due to increasing awareness of alcohol’s effects on physical and mental health, non-alcoholic summer drinks are becoming more widely available than ever before. A recent Canadian Geographic article cited cost, diet and legal cannabis consumption as additional factors motivating consumers to seek out sober drink options.

According to Forbes, sober bars are popping up across the country, reflecting the demand for social spaces that don’t involve inebriation. And with 67% of Americans taking steps to reduce their alcohol intake, it’s no surprise that beverage manufacturers have responded by introducing a host of new and enticing sober drink options.

The non-alcoholic drinks you need to know

Designated drivers, rejoice: in recent years, a wide range of non-alcoholic options have started to pop up on shelves. When looking to stock your sober bar, don’t ignore these types of non-alcoholic drinks.

Zero-proof spirits: Miss the experience of drinking hard liquor, but not the hangovers that come with it? You can now find zero-proof versions of spirits like gin, tequila and even whiskey, as well as unique options like Seedlip, non-alcoholic spirits distilled from botanicals.

Mocktails: Whether you’re ordering a virgin mojito at a bar or shaking up your very own spicy pineapple margarita, mocktails let you experience all of the summer fun without any of the alcohol.

Non-alcoholic and dealcoholized wines: Skip the grape juice and pick up one of these options for your next dinner party. Alternatives to alcoholic wine can come in white, red, rosé and sparkling styles.

Alcohol-free beer: Today, lagers, stouts and ales can all be found in non-alcoholic form. These low-alcohol and alcohol-free options may also be cheaper than their traditional counterparts.

Your guide to hosting alcohol-free functions this summer

Are you curious about the benefits a sober lifestyle can provide? Or are you looking to create a more inclusive environment for loved ones who are avoiding alcohol? Whatever the reason, here’s how to embrace sobriety during the warmer months.

Stock your non-alcoholic bar

Seek out non-alcoholic liquors such as vodka, tequila, gin or rum. You can even embrace your inner mixologist by investing in a few non-alcoholic bitters.

Embrace alternatives to alcohol when serving food

Ditching wine doesn’t mean that you have to limit yourself in the drinks department. Hosting a barbecue? Pair everything grilled with some fizzy, fruity kombucha for your guests to enjoy. Have guests over for dinner? Try adding some non-alcoholic sangria to your table. Fancy fruit juice, elegant sparkling water and electrolyte-packed coconut water are all great options that don’t involve alcohol.

Shine the spotlight on other treats, not alcohol

When was the last time you made s’mores? Instead of a toast that involves alcohol, consider toasting marshmallows over a fire pit or some candles. Or think about swapping a drinks bar for a nacho bar where your guests can customize their meals.

Challenge your friends to create unique drinks

Think potluck, but for drinks: challenge your friends to come up with inventive mocktails for everyone to enjoy. Don’t forget to assign each drink a creative name, like the unforgettable glamorous pornstar martini – yes, that’s a real drink.

Give dry a try this summer

Summer drinks don’t have to be synonymous with alcohol. Thanks to the growing popularity of mocktails and other non-alcoholic drinks, it’s never been easier to try out sobriety or commit to living life alcohol-free.

If you’re looking for ways to make summer drinks without alcohol, check out local stores for non-alcoholic drinks or consider hosting a casual, alcohol-free function with your friends. Stocking a non-alcoholic bar or placing the focus on other fun activities is a great place to start. You can also seek out sober bars or sober influencers for more inspiration.

After all, a non-alcoholic summer drink can be packed with all of alcohol’s complex flavors but none of its ill effects. Non-alcoholic drinks are often less expensive, lighter on calories, and better for your body and mind. So why not raise a glass to that?

Ksenia Prints is a writer, blogger, photographer and recipe developer from Montreal, Canada. She blogs over at MyMocktailForest.com, writing about food and drink for adventurous home cooks.